


Kills the Lights

by deathdragon1516



Series: Good Omens Whump by Q [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 48bc, Aziraphale Has PTSD (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has an Anxiety Disorder (Good Omens), Creepy Sandalphon (Good Omens), Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley Saved Kids Before the Flood in Mesopotamia 3004 BC (Good Omens), Crowley has Trauma from the Fall (Good Omens), Dissociation, Flashbacks, Graphic Depiction of Burns, Hurt, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Library of Alexandria, M/M, Minor Character Death, My First Fanfic, Panic Attacks, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Sandalphon Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Scene: Flood in Mesopotamia 3004 BC (Good Omens), Self-Harm, They/Them Pronouns for Uriel (Good Omens), Unnamed characters - Freeform, War in Heaven (Good Omens), Whump, nonbinary author, uriel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29774265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathdragon1516/pseuds/deathdragon1516
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale may be immortal, but that doesn't stop the nightmares -both real and dreamed- to plague them.Less of a 5+1 and more of a 6+2+1
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Whump by Q [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2188344
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	1. The Flood

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic, but trust me when I say I'm well-versed in the art of writing. This fic is merely me finally giving in to the urge of contributing to the massive wave of Good Omens fiction. It took me devouring thousands of fics to get to this point, so congrats GO fans for making me give in!
> 
> CW: This is where a great deal of the tags will kick in, so be warned for the self-harm, the PTSD & flashbacks, angel blood, implied drowning, Fall trauma, nightmares, etc.  
> Please mind the tags, they are very much there for a reason!
> 
> Essentially, I fuck Crowley over pretty badly...

Chapter 1: The Flood

Crowley watched in horror as the humans screamed for salvation, their cries muted by the endless rain and thunder. The lungs he didn’t need to use heaved ragged breaths. This was far worse than what Hell had told him to expect. This was not a careful reckoning, but a genocide. His eyes snapped to Aziraphale as they hovered side-by-side over the flood, hoping desperately that he would swoop to their aid. The angel merely gazed upon the righteous slaughter with deadened, unseeing eyes. Crowley let out a forlorn whine and pulled at his hair despairingly, begging Aziraphale to do anything, to save them.  
“Heaven has expressly forbidden me from interfering,” he answered hollowly. Anyone listening closely would have heard how deeply it shook.

“There are innocent people down there, angel. Children! Surely, She didn’t want all of them to die!” Crowley shouted to be heard over the deafening storm. Aziraphale sighed and wiped at his pallid face, but suddenly stiffened. He turned to Crowley, his eyes determined and hopeful and anguished.

“My side forbids me, but does yours?”

The demon gasped and instantly set his eyes sharply upon the heavy waves with new purpose. His ears caught the fleeting trace of a survivor’s voice in the wind, and he rushed towards it. A woman flailed in the waves, frantically holding a small child above the freezing water. He swooped down, tucking his wings in close. At the last second, they snapped open and he snatched the child out of her open arms. The whisper of gratitude from the woman was lost as a final swell dragged her under. The young boy squirmed and wailed for his mother, and Crowley struggled to keep his grip. He growled in frustration and the boy squeaked, rigid in mute terror at the sight of his serpentine eyes.  
The next child was a slightly older girl, clinging to a floating log. She cried out from every wave that battered her. When Crowley attempted to pull her to safety, she only gripped harder to the wood.  
“Let go of it or I will leave you to drown!” he said, and her eyes squinted at him through the salty spray. As she took note of his massive wings and the boy tucked tightly into the crook of his neck, her bawling began anew and she reached for him. Crowley scooped her up and she curled into him on the opposite side of the boy.

Crowley was growing tired. His wings had become soaked through, and the children weighed nearly as much as him. He had begun to turn back towards the Ark when he heard more screaming. A boy, barely three years old, clutched to a broken fence with one hand. In his other, he held a wailing infant. Crowley cursed Her under his breath and once more descended. The girl in his arms peeked out and asked a question that made his heart ache and his mind churn.  
“How will you hold them?”  


He struggled to tamp down the despair roiling internally as he realized she was right. They wouldn’t all fit in his arms. But when Crowley landed on the fence as carefully as he could, he knew he couldn’t abandon the last two children. The demon gently set down the children in his arms near the boy and infant. They quietly whimpered, holding on as long as they could before he pried himself from their grasp. He pointed to the first child he rescued.  
“You, boy. How is your grip, strong enough to hold onto my legs?” he shouted. The boy’s eyes widened and he backed away, wildly shaking his head. The girl straightened proudly and, though he could see her dread, she volunteered. Crowley grinned sharply at the two of them, then turned his attention to the kid with the infant.  
“Will you hold the baby while I fly us? We’re almost to safety, I promise.” The young boy nodded hesitantly, still wary of the winged creature offering salvation. With a plan in place, Crowley lifted his dripping wings and positioned the children as quickly as he could. His glowing eyes could see the ropes holding the fence together were fraying by the second. The makeshift raft shattered under the next wave, moments after they had taken off.  


The demon cut off a groan, his corporation’s joints aching at the weight. He poured all of his attention into keeping his grasp on the children as he made powerful strokes against the battering maelstrom. They couldn’t have been more than half a kilometer from the Ark before something went wrong. The girl was slipping.  
She shrieked and clawed as he curled his legs in an effort to give her a better grip. He flew faster, straining to reach the massive ship before the girl could fall. With a final burst of strength, he barreled through a small window on the lowest deck. They collapsed into a pile of hay, with the demon curling himself around the rest to break their falls. The heavy landing jolted Crowley to the core and pulled on his wings, but he still was the first to sit up.  


After a quick headcount, he was relieved to find they had all made it. He nudged the children off his aching body and surveyed their hasty refuge. They were in a small stable, the goats and llamas they had scared cowering in the far corner. Noah and his family were nowhere to be seen, most likely on higher levels. Crowley let his head fall back into the hay for a second before dragging himself to his feet. He dragged the hay to the opposite corner of the livestock and arranged it to form a makeshift bed. He gazed, exhausted, at his charges. The youngest boy rocked his baby sibling softly. The girl had begun to drag hay over to help the demon with their nest. He hissed sharply as he heard what the first boy was whispering: prayers thanking Her for sending an angel.  
“I assure you boy, I’m not an angel. So quit thanking Her and get over here,” he growled while shaking the searing holiness from his ears. The boy gasped, and he scrambled to reach the demon. Crowley sank bonelessly into the hay, then beckoned the children to join him. They all glanced hesitantly at each other before the youngest stepped forward to nestle himself and the infant in the crook of Crowley’s right wing. After a few seconds without the demon doing something horrible to the child, the others decided it wouldn’t do to survive the water only to freeze in the night and crowded into the pile. With all of them finally safe from the raging flood, they drifted gently off to sleep.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The pristine white of Heaven was stained gold with the blood of angels. Crowley stood frozen in the center, watching as angels battled all around him. His being flinched at every holy scream, shuddered at every squelch of a spear stabbing into flesh. The smell of brimstone and acrid smoke was overwhelmed by the endless stench of ichor.  
He was shaken out of his stupor by a weapon being shoved into his hands. Nausea built deep in his gut at the sight of the gilded and stained tip. Crowley let it fall from his grip as he dropped to the ground and scrambled away from the death and devastation, gagging. His back hit something unyielding and he looked up to find Michael leering down at him in disgust. The archangel raised her spear high and brought it down in one slashing motion. Crowley yelped and rolled away from the blow, receiving only a scratch in front of his right ear. Michael scowled.  
“Stay still, traitor, and accept your punishment from the Almighty.”  


His eyes shone with terror amidst tears.  
“Why am I being punished? I have done nothing wrong!”  


The archangel lifted her spear once more.  
“You questioned God, so you will Fall.” Her aim did not fail, the holy weapon digging deep into his shoulder. Ichor poured from the wound, and Crowley wailed as she coldly ripped the spear from his shoulder. He clutched desperately at his wound, the searing pain causing the tears to fall freely down his cheeks. In that moment, cognition clouded from agony, Crowley unwittingly made his worst mistake: he let his faith in Her waver.  
The ground cracked open below him, and he Fell.  


The too-bright void gaped below him and swallowed his screams. He felt the scorching heat surround him and cried out as a twisted sigil was branded where Michael’s spear scratched his face. Just as the pain of the mark had begun to fade, a new kind of pain greatly overshadowed it. He let his head drop back, and through blurry eyes, saw his once snow-white wings be set aflame. He howled in grief and agony as the fire left them blistered and charred.  


Every time Crowley thought he had felt the worst pain he could, he was proven wrong. The landing left his body shattered, and through the countless wounds, demonic energy seeped in. Though he had never felt the energy before, his mind supplied him with the proper word. The power of it ripped through him as it filled every broken, graceless space with its unholiness. As soon as he was healed, he raised his head to the skies. He watched his brethren rain from Heaven and heard their screams. The ground under him shattered, as more bodies slammed into it.  


He was plunged into a crater full of boiling sulphur. It warped and melted his halo. It covered his skin in boils that his demonic energy hardened into scales. It tinged his eyes yellow and his pupils shrunk to slits. Crowley could only whimper in pain as the screaming grew louder around him. He could feel himself break beyond repair, and he felt the despair overwhelm him and he opened his mouth to scream with the others and-

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley woke up, sobbing and covered in a heavy sheen of sweat. The baby was bawling at his side, and the other children were staring at him in terror. He curled his wings around himself, creating a barrier between him and the children. They shouldn’t see him vulnerable, he knew, but the nightmare had shook him to his core. It had been a long time since he had been thrown out of Heaven, and yet he could never forget just how awful it was. He felt a small hand hesitantly touch his wing, and he flinched violently, pain and screams and pain and-. The hand quickly drew away, before the culprit called out.  
“Are you alright?” The girl’s voice wavered, and Crowley’s previously muffled cries only grew louder. He tried to force them back down, shoving a hand over his mouth and biting his knuckles, but they refused to stop. He was shaking, wings quivering in aftershocks of pain, both real and re-lived. Eventually, the girl realized she wouldn’t get a different answer and left his side. A minuscule amount of tension left his shoulders, and a small part of himself noted an urge to reach out for her touch beneath the larger bolts of panic.  
He reached a trembling hand towards his wings and gently stroked one in hopes of stopping the shaking. Instead, it sent a spark of pain and pain and pain through his entire body, so intense that his previously gentle hand gripped hard and accidentally ripped out two of his secondaries. His corporation and soul spasmed endlessly, and he heard the girl call out to him again.  


He gritted his teeth against the screams ripping through his throat and a harsh fury emerged from even deeper within. Why did he still feel this pain? Why was he so weak to it? With another sharp tug, more feathers fell. This new, intentional sort of pain left him gasping for breath, but his panic was receding. Dark feathers were ripped out again and again until finally there were only the primaries and a thin layer of down was left. His breathing had evened out, his shaking subsided to the occasional spasm. The hay was covered in a thick layer of inky fluff, and he pulled the mangled limbs behind his back before falling back with a heavy sigh. The sparks of pain from laying on his wounds made sure he was far from comfortable.  


Crowley eventually expanded his gaze beyond the pile of his failed control, finding the children curled in the far corner of the room. The older children were wrapped about the quaking younger, the baby still wailing. Guilt and shame bubbled in his chest, but he pushed it back down in favor of schooling his face. He glanced around the room, before settling his eyes onto his pile again.  
“I wanted to make it softer for us, so we’d sleep better.” The eldest’s eyebrows jumped up, but she loosened her grip on the others. She stood, and took a small step towards him. When Crowley made no moves, she tentatively made her way to his side. Her hand reached out to rest on his shoulder and he felt his eyes fill at the gentle touch. Emboldened, she curled her hands around him and leaned in to hug him. It was a miracle he didn’t cry.  


He sighed as she pulled away and gestured for the other children to join them in the nest. They huddled around him and the dark wings carefully drew around them once more. A small miracle ridded him of sweat, and another calmed the infant. The wailing of it was what set him off in his sleep, he mused. After a thought, he flicked his hand again to ensure he would wake still and silent, in the event of another nightmare. One final miracle for the children to sleep peacefully drained the rest of his energy, and he slumped over fully.  
He closed his eyes and tried to pretend that everything was fine the way it was.


	2. The Library of Alexandria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale adds a new trauma of large fires to his collection, and has a nightmare about his first addition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was wayyy bigger than I first planned (about 1.5k more)! Also, if anyone could let me know how to add italics and bolding, please do!!!
> 
> CW: fire, book burning, graphic depictions of burns (And I mean GRAPHIC), assault, assalt, restraining, and semi-graphic depictions of vomit.
> 
> Second round of CW’s: Aziraphale has some heavy panic and dissociation this chapter, along with a bit of a sensory overload.
> 
> If any of this is triggering for you, please be careful when reading!

Chapter 2: The Library of Alexandria 

The smoke reached Aziraphale far too late for his liking. He had been digging through tomes gleefully for days on end in the library, burying himself deep in the rich knowledge of the times. Alexandria’s library housed more knowledge than Aziraphale could consume in a year, but he would certainly try. 

He was sitting primly on a stool, reading a scroll on Egyptian legends -he found their gods quite interesting, if a bit blasphemous- when he smelled the acrid scent of burning books. Aziraphale jerked his head upwards, and finally noticed the distant shouting. 

“Fire in the west wing! Save the books!” The librarians shouted for anyone nearby to help grab the knowledge or stop the inferno. The angel decided on the latter, rushing towards the fire as he prepared to miracle away the flames. 

Just as he turned a corner and reached the fire, he caught a glimpse of a tall foreign mam in pure white robes. Gabriel. The archangel was walking calmly from the flames, a pleased smirk plastered on his visage. Aziraphale ducked behind a pillar. How could this be Heaven’s work? What did destroying knowledge have to do with Her plan? He didn't know why they had started the fire, but it was too late. 

Aziraphale covered his mouth with a hand in shock as he realized he couldn't stop the fire. The fire burst outwards for a few seconds after consuming another shelf, setting one of the scholars aflame with a cry. It was enough to break the angel out of his misery as he miracled the poor man into a nearby irrigation canal. 

With that, he snapped all of the firefighters into abandoning the flames in favor of escaping with as many books as they could carry. He followed suit, snatching up any book or scroll that looked more old or valuable than others. After grabbing all that he could carry, he sent his prizes to his temporary lodgings down the street and took more.

He repeated this countless times until the smoke grew too thick to see through, and then even further after stopping his corporation's unnecessary breathing. There were still hundreds of untouched shelves when the air grew too hot to stand. He miracled away one more handful, grabbed a few more on his way out, and sprinted out before the library collapsed in a burning wreck. Aziraphale allowed him a few moments to watch the library burn, then left for the lodgings with unshed tears. 

He was nearly to his room when he caught a whiff of brimstone in the air. Demons. He wiped his eyes, gently set down his books, and whipped around with fists raised.

“Hey, wait a minute, angel, it's me!” Aziraphale glared at Crowley’s hands, raised in surrender.

“If you're here to thwart me or tempt me to something, I kindly refuse in advance!” he snarled with as much venom his gentle soul could manage. The demon jerked backwards, before squinting and drawing nearer.  
“Have you been crying? What happened?” 

“That's none of your concern,” he said, huffing as much superiority as he could fit into his wobbling voice.

“Of course it's my concern,” Crowley growled. “What blessed human made you cry?” 

Aziraphale shook his head, ignoring the question in favor of picking up his books. Crowley eyed the stack, but paid them no mind as he continued his tirade. 

“Whoever or whatever upset you, I'm sure it's nothing a little wine and dine couldn't fix! How about that little bakery down the street? I've heard their-”

“Would you please LEAVE ME BE?” Some of Aziraphale’s angelic command slipped through, and Crowley nearly toppled over. He reigned the power back in, giving his friend a pained look. 

“I'm so sorry, my dear, but I believe it would be better for both of us if I went straight home,” he sighed. Crowley’s face fell, but quickly righted itself into a carefree grin. 

“Maybe some other time then! How about next Saturday?” Aziraphale smiled at him for the first time that day, and nodded. He watched the lithe demon saunter around the bend, then let himself droop once more.

His flat was stuffed with the rescued books from floor to ceiling. The books were safe, if a bit smoked and toasted. The sight of them was a full reminder of the earlier tragedy, and Aziraphale shuddered as if he had been punched. He quietly began to organize them in some form. A slip of pure white amongst the yellowed papyrus caught his eyes, and he lifted it from atop the stack it rested. It was a letter, addressed to him in a flowy yet strict script. He gently broke the wax seal, and read:  
Aziraphale,  
You have spent your monthly miracle allowance on frivolous activities, rather than what you were set on Earth to do.  
As such, you shall not be allowed to perform any miracles for the next month. We pray that you will learn to be more frugal in the future.  
May God's glory be with you,  
Gabriel.

A small, undignified whimper escaped his lips before he could stop it. A month! He would be unable to do good for a month, helpless. There would be no more book-saving, no more helping the humans, no little blessings to balance out evil. 

Aziraphale rubbed the dampness from his eyes fiercely. No, he would just have to find other ways of doing good. He finished moving the books, grabbed his reading from where it lay, and settled onto the cot. While he didn't need to sleep, it was nice to simply lay on the warm surface.

He was hours into the book when he absent-mindedly snapped his fingers. When the warm drink he envisioned didn't appear in his hand, the tears returned with a vengeance. Deep sobs wracked his corporation, eventually leading to all-encompassing exhaustion settling itself deep in his bones.

——————————————————————————————————————————-

He ran through the roaring flames towards the shouting, praying he’d be fast enough this time. The city was burning and yet no one had left. Aziraphale doused the flames as he ran, only for neighboring flames to fill the gaps. This side of the city had almost entirely been burned to the foundations. Occasionally, the scents of both demons and angels mingled with the thick smoke. Under a pile of burning rubble, a man cried out weakly for help, and Aziraphale was becoming desperate. This was the fourth human he had tried to save, the last three dying in his arms. 

He threw aside the massive rocks with all of the ethereal strength he had left. The man’s hand shot out of the wreckage, and Aziraphale took it in his. He ignored the man’s pained howls the best he could as his firm grip dragged against the melted and peeling skin. When the man was finally free and fully visible, Aziraphale held back a sob. This human would not make it. The awful burns encased his entire body, skin and muscle blackened against exposed bones. It was a curse for him to still be alive with injuries this severe. Angelic tears slid down his cheeks as he gently miracled the man to a quick peace. He laid the man upon the flames and stared at the pyre for a moment, before running towards the next voice shouting for help. 

It wasn’t until he tried to leap through more flames that he realized how much he had exerted himself. The usual miracle protecting him from the heat failed, and he caught fire. He landed with a yelp, falling over as he batted at the flickers creeping up his robes and licking pain along his bare limbs. Just as he had begun to roll in the dirt, a nearby snap caused the flames to disappear. Aziraphale looked up at the scoff. 

“Really, Aziraphale, have you no dignity? An angel, rolling like a pig in the mud! Ugh,” Sandalphon sneered. The hand that pulled him upright dug in deep, and Aziraphale was certain he would have bruises. Fiddling with his ash-and-dirt encrusted robes, he tried to regain composure in front of his superior. 

“My apologies, I seem to have overexerted myself.”  
“You’re lucky none of the mortals were around to see your little stunt,” his stiff grin deepened into a cruel smirk, “or will be alive to remember.”

Aziraphale felt bile rise in his throat as he cleared it.  
“Yes, of course. I must be leaving now, though. People to smite, fire to oversee,” he said with a strained smile. Sandalphon’s sneer grew painfully, unangelically wide.

“You haven’t heard? Your new job is to lead Lot and his family out of the city. Your starring role!”  
His stiff smile became real at the chance to finally be of some help to the humans. He straightened up, folding his hands and thanking his superior, then turned east to the city’s exit. Just as he had taken to the air, Sandalphon’s final remark nearly made him plummet to the ground.

“Don’t forget to smite the ones that turn around!”

Smoke coated his entire body in a layer of grime, the gray clinging to his wings matching his filthy robes. His mind raced as he flew. The flight was far too short for his liking, as he finally spotted the family huddled together. The ground was showered with particles as he touched down, and he hoped he wouldn’t face a reprimand for being a bit untidy. Lot and his family stared at the angel before them, before they fell to their knees as one.

“Get up, we haven’t time for that sort of thing,” he said, pulling Lot to his feet. The family slowly followed as he shouted over the roar of the burning city.

“Now listen closely! I will lead you to safety, but you must NEVER LOOK BACK,” his angelic voice caused their eyes to widen, but they all nodded. He took a fortifying breath, felt his strength slowly returning, and began to guide the humans to their salvation.

He prayed with every step he took that they would all listen. He begged Her to spare them, spare him.

They were nearly safe, the city almost completely out of view, when he heard a harsh sob. His eyes snapped behind him, and he saw Lot’s wife on the ground, staring at the wreckage of the city. He rushed to her side while ordering the others to keep moving, ordering them to look away. The woman jerked away from his hand, but he firmly pulled her up. She refused to stand on her own.

“Come now, to your feet! You mustn’t be-“  
A heavy blow to his side threw him far away from the group of humans. He cried out as his back slammed into a cliff face. Two figures grabbed him from either side, holding him tightly in place. He looked up at Uriel and Michael, silently pleading to be released, but they only had eyes for the spectacle ahead. Sandalphon was torturing Lot’s wife. 

The rest of the family had long escaped, certain from the noises they heard that nothing good would come from staying. The bald archangel had his wings flung wide, angelic form being revealed slowly to the poor woman bound in his grasp. Her wild eyes bled as she thrashed, calling out for God. The transformation into salt began at her feet, her skin and clothes disintegrating into a bloodstained pile of cloth. Aziraphale turned his head away, but Michael forced his gaze back to the horrific sight. A snap of Uriel’s fingers, and he was unable to close his eyes. He bit his lip, and then his tongue, in an effort to stop the onslaught of tears. 

When there was nothing left of her, Sandalphon pulled his angelic form back inside his corporeal, his sigh closer to disappointment that the fun was over rather than one of relief or sadness. Rolling his shoulders, the archangel shifted his smirk to Aziraphale.

“Knew you didn’t have it in you. Pathetic. After that big of a cock-up, your punishment will be severe.”

Aziraphale couldn’t hold back his sobs as his instincts took over. He frantically struggled to free himself as Sandalphon drew nearer, forcing a hand over his eyes and miracling him away, to where there was only WHITE.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He jerked upright, barely enough presence of mind to note where the books were situated, before heaving the contents of his stomach onto the bed sheets in his lap. The burn in his throat was just as strong as that of his eyes, hours of tears falling in his sleep turning them puffy and sore. Attempts to slow his breathing resulted in more vomit, as the sour stench permeating the room worsened his nausea. 

It felt like an eternity had passed before he was able to stop gagging. By then, Aziraphale had thoroughly worn out his corporation. He weakly snapped his fingers, and fell back with a groan when the mess remained. The flat, cluttered with books as it was, offered no cleaning supplies to his view. 

After four hours of finding the supplies, mindlessly scrubbing every stain, and trying his best not to throw up again, he slumped to the ground. He cared not for his dignity as he crawled across the floor to a corner near-buried by books. Aziraphale finally gave in to his clamoring mind, curling into a ball and staring with unseeing eyes out into his flat.

Through the haze of his thoughts, he could occasionally feel the presence of human or occult beings nearby. They came with loud knocks that bounced and distorted alongside consciousness, which led to his nausea returning with a vengeance. He uncurled twice during the episode, only to dry heave upon the ground. Eventually, Aziraphale was left slumped over with his head to the floor. His muscles cramped painfully, yet he could barely feel it.

The knocking had returned. With no energy or decency left, Aziraphale merely groaned, curling fisted hands over his ears. This time, however, it didn’t end. He whimpered, then sobbed, as the pounding echoed through the flat. When the knocking ceased, it was replaced by the even more terrifying sound of a key being turned in the lock.

Aziraphale’s eyes flew open as he scrambled back into the corner of the room, pressing his back as close to the walls as he could. He whined at the dim light of the lantern the intruder held. The human set it down on his desk after moving a few books to the floor as she spoke.

“Mr. Fell, are you in here? People have been worried about you, they say you haven’t been seen since that fire, a week ago.” It was his landlady, a lovely old woman named Arsinoe. Her favorite snack is fresh figs, his mind helpfully supplied. She shuffled around the flat, first to the bed, and then behind a few piles of books. 

Realizing he was in no danger, he let himself untense. As his legs stretched out slightly, they happened to hit a small pile of the books. The landlady whipped around to the noise, grabbing her lamp and strutting across the room. Aziraphale couldn’t help himself as he panicked again. At the sight of her tenant whimpering and shaking in the corner of the room, Arsinoe halted abruptly.

“I apologize, Mr. Fell. It was not my intention to scare you. Are you alright?” The concern in her voice reignited the tiniest spark of dignity back into him, and it hastily seized control over his thoughts.

“I am perfectly alright, child. No need to worry, I was just… just searching for a few books,” he croaked. She held a hand out to him, and it took far too much effort to not flinch at the touch. 

It seemed he used up all of his energy in that task, because the moment he was pulled to his feet, he crumpled back to his knees. Arsinoe yelped, placing her hands on his shoulders to keep him from falling the rest of the way. His strangled scream at the hands had her leaping away from him, and he curled up again.

“I’m sorry! So sorry, dear. I-I did not mean to- oh, I don’t know what I… I’m sorry,” he cried, wringing his hands over his leaking eyes. She drew closer, careful not to touch him.

“It’s okay, really! I should have asked before touching you. May I help you onto your bed?” He nodded.

It was a slow process of moving. Aziraphale could barely wrap his arm around her shoulder, but she was strong. Arsinoe lifted him up and shuffled them to the bed with as much grace as she could manage, which wasn’t much. Even such a short walk left Aziraphale gasping for breath. She brought him a small pitcher of beer to sip, then pulled back. He was grateful for the space as he drank as much as he could, then set the pitcher down before falling back onto the bed. 

“Thank you for your help, I don’t know what was wrong with me,” he said. Arsinoe smiled softly.

“I’m glad to have been of use. And, there’s nothing wrong with you. You witnessed a very awful thing, and just needed someone to help you back on your feet!” She gently pulled the covers over him. He patted her hand in thanks, before she picked up her lamp and left. 

Aziraphale chose not to sleep, deciding to merely shut his eyes and rest. Thoughts could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is completely unwritten, and will likely be the hardest for me to do! 
> 
> On top of this, my mental health took a dip this week, so it would be best for me to focus on my mountain of abandoned schoolwork!
> 
> As such, my best guess for the date of the next update is March 16th, at the earliest!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic, but trust me when I say I'm well-versed in the art of writing. This fic is merely me finally giving in to the urge of contributing to the massive wave of Good Omens fiction. It took me devouring thousands of fics to get to this point, so congrats GO fans for making me give in!
> 
> I have 1.5 chapters pre-written, but I also have a ridiculous amount of responsibilities and issues, so updates may be spotty!
> 
> -Q (they/him)


End file.
